


I Want You to Want Me

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-06-30 09:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19850131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: Hannibal and Bedelia are in a new city under assumed identities post season 3. But, being together again after so long takes some adjustment.





	I Want You to Want Me

**Author's Note:**

> For the anons who asked for angst and "you're not going out dressed like that."

"You're not going out dressed like that," Hannibal practically growls as he takes in the sight of her. The dress is the shade of midnight, a mix of deep ocean blue and inky black. But it is not the color that bothers him.

The dress opens at the front, exposing a sharp-v of her skin that nearly reaches her abdomen. He can see the supple rounded flesh of her breasts. 

He yearns to touch them, to hold their weight in his hands, to take her nippple between his teeth.

"Am I to presume that you intend to stop me?" Bedelia says with a raise of her eyebrow as she passes him to retrieve her clutch from the entryway table. 

" _No_ , but-"

The eyebrow raises higher, and this time she gives him a slight smirk. She knows what she is doing to him. This is why there are rules against dating your psychiatrist. 

Hannibal pauses and chooses his words carefully, knowing that one wrong step could be catastrophic. 

"Your choice of attire will not help us blend in."

She was so incredibly fast. How could one ever expect to win a game of chess with a partner who knew your next move before you made it?

"I don't think we have _ever_ blended in, Hannibal. You thrive on being _seen_."

_Oh. His mind drifts to Will Graham, submerged in the water. The men in the crowds with dark, curly hair and nervous eyes, those he flirted with perpetually._

"This isn't about me, Bedelia," he grits through his teeth, closing the personal space between them. He expects her to step back and acquiesce, but she stands firm, looking up at him. 

"Isn't it?" Her eyes are deep pools that he could drown in if he wasn't careful.

She straightens his already perfect bowtie and touches her fingers to his face, his neck, sending a surge of excitement to his trousers. 

"Maybe you're just jealous," she whispers 

" _Never_ ," he huffs, offended moreso at the fact that she has so easily seen through him than the recognition of his jealousy. He hated it when other people _looked_ at her with their predatory gazes. Bedelia was a beautiful woman and to an extent, the gazes were expected. But this...she looked outright _erotic_. 

_And yet,_ he tilts his head. Sadness flashed across her face before her composed mask resettled. Like his response had somehow wounded her. 

His thoughts are interrupted when she opens the door and throws him back a glance before leaving, her eyes glimmering.

"Maybe you should be."

* * *

When he glides her around the dance floor, she notices that he has not dipped her at all tonight. She knows why. His concentration is _elsewhere_.

She is simply keeping the reserved space in his arms warm.

As the night continues, his person-suit becomes frayed at the edges, agitation slipping into his demeanor. They have danced longer than what usually constituted Hannibal's performance art, and the constant motion has become tiresome. 

He has spent most of his time glancing around at men. She knows _who_ he is looking for in the crowd and it stings her more than she would like to admit.

They have not spoken tonight outside performative pleasantries. 

"Hannibal, I need a break," she murmers, their near constant dancing causing a spasm in her nerve-damaged shoulder. 

" _No_ ," 

" _Hannibal,"_ she warns, her voice quickly drifting into icy territory. The quartet finish their song and begin their next piece, the slower tempo making for easier conversation in the loud, crowded hall. Their voices are practiced whispers. 

"Why are you dressed like this," he practically hisses. "You look-"

" _Enough_ ," she states plainly.

This isn't the response she had hoped for. In her imagination, she didn't even make it out of the door before he absolutely ravaged her. Her mind drifts to his warm hands on her skin in Florence, his fingers in her hair. The flushed feeling of being full as he pulsed into her. But now, he had _other_ priorities and she was simply causing an unnecessary distraction. 

He doesn't speak for a while, his eyes darting around the room before settling on hers. To the unsuspecting onlooker, they were both charmingly infatuated with each other. Two lovers enjoying a night out. But to Hannibal, she looks closed-off, completely absent. When he spins her, she is completely pliant in his arms, simply going through the motions.

He was naive to think he was the only one with a mental escape. He wonders what her memory palace was like, or if it was even a palace at all. _Is he there_? Either way, she has run from him _again_.

Just as the music ends, she unclasps their hands and turns without a word, walking to the fresh champagne. Gentlemanly, he slides his forearm for her to grasp.

Taking a languid drink of the bubbly liquid, she closes her eyes and sighs lightly. They have made their way to a currently unoccupied corner and are far enough from other guests that their conversation will remain private.

"You don't have to do this," she says calmly. 

"What-"

"Our story is still flexible here," she says, slowly twisting the diamond ring on her finger with her thumb. "I will not get in your way." Her words are firm and her eyes bore into him, making sure he understands her meaning. _I will not make things difficult. You do not need to call on me_. 

His eyes register shock for a moment before hurt. Two weeks in Barcelona and she was implying they should not act as husband and wife. That detail had not been part of the act for a long time and it wounds him that she would so easily abandon their relationship.

It wasn't like her. Something was _very_ wrong.

" _Bedelia_ , I-"

She cuts him off again.

"I'm actually not feeling well," she changes the subject smoothly and begins to drift away, the long gown trailing after her retreating form. "I will meet you at the flat."

Had she really thought he would stay at a party without her? Let her return home when she was feeling ill? His earlier agitation has fizzled like the neglected champagne in his glass, replaced with concern. 

* * *

They spend the car ride in silence and he chances a glance at her. Once. Twice, but she looks the same. Deflated. And he knows it's not from the meager alcohol she ingested. 

When they arrive, she slips into the large ensuite bathroom without a word. The click of the lock conveys her mood, if her earlier behavior was not enough of an indication. 

He just can't pinpoint the exact cause of her distress. 

* * *

Steam floods the bedroom when she finally emerges from the bathroom after what seemed like an eternity. She is dressed in a long spaghetti strap satin nightgown and her face is scrubbed of all makeup and tinged pink, her light dusting of freckles visible.

Her hair has been washed of all its product and heat-enforced style and lays in wet strands along her shoulders.

When she spots him sitting atop the bed, her eyes widen and she sharply inhales. She hadn't expected him to be here. He _never_ entered her room anymore. Their relationship was now that of glorified roommates.

She is practically naked, devoid of her armor.

Worse, she is using her crutches, the prosthetic propped against the vanity. She _never_ allows him to see her like this.

Her eyes quickly shift and he knows she is contemplating returning to the bathroom.

"I want to talk about tonight," Hannibal says firmly, but not unkindly, rising from the bed. 

"Not now, Hannibal. Just-" the frustration slips into her voice before she lets it go, making her way to the bed. She wanted to get away from his eyes as quickly as possible. "Please, I'm tired."

Part of him wishes to obey her request. She did look tired, but he knows it isn't physical. She's pushed her body so tirelessly over the past few months- a night of dancing wouldn't leave her so exhausted.

But tomorrow she will rebuild her defenses and his opportunity to truly reach her will be lost. They have to talk tonight. 

She places the crutches against the wall and when he closes the space between them, she allows him to help her into bed. Even though she does not _need_ his help.

"You were not yourself tonight," he says steadily. It is not an accusation, but an observation.

Bedelia lays on her side, taking measured breaths. He moves around to the other side of the bed, what was one _his_ side, and lays beside her. It has been _months_ since they've been in the same bed. 

But really, they were still an arm's length apart. A third person could fill the space between them. _He already has,_ she thinks bitterly. 

Uncomfortable silence settles in her bedroom and for a moment, he thinks she will not respond. 

"When you found me," her voice is low and steady. "I thought that you had come because you were _choosing_ me."

"I was-"

" _No_ ," she interrupts. Will Graham was dead, submerged in deep, dark water when he found her unconscious at her would-be last supper. "I am a stand-in. A means to an end."

His eyebrows quirk in confusion and then his anger begins to flare and boil. He has never treated her like a replacement, always admired her for the unique qualities she possessed. In their months together, since his escape and her attack, he has fulfilled every need. But before he has time to defend himself, she continues. 

"Tonight, I wanted you to look at me like _before_."

Oh. Perhaps not _every_ need.

"I wanted you to _want_ me."

His anger is immediately extinguished, and he is filled instead with cold dread. Bedelia was not characteristically so direct with her feelings, and he knows this admission has come at a great cost to her.

They hadn't slept together since reuniting, his assumption being that she needed space. Time to reconstruct herself after such a huge trauma. In the beginning, he'd only entered her bedroom to help her with task proficiencies she was still working to regain. Later, he left her alone, acutely aware of her propensity for independence. 

The dread seeps deeper into his bones as he comes to the realization that in his efforts to give her room to recover, he has made her feel isolated. Undesirable. 

"You are constantly looking for _him,_ " her voice slightly cracks and he realizes how deeply she is hurt. "And I will never be enough."

He looks at her small form huddled in the large bed, only now seeing how _lonely_ she looks. Hannibal slides across the bed slowly, closing the distance between them. His hands are hesitant when they reach to wrap around her, still unsure of his place. 

"I do still think of him," he admits, knowing that lies could never fool her. "But tonight, I was _jealous_. I couldn't stand all those men staring at you when all I wanted you so badly"

She releases a breath that is mix of a laugh and a sob.

Hannibal pulls her closer, his large hand draping over the curve of her hip. They are spooning for the first time in years and when her shoulders begin to shake softly, he realizes she is crying. 

"I do love you, Bedelia," he whispers into her ear, placing a small kiss to her jawline. He has missed this intimacy with her for so long, thinking it was simply another shattered teacup, another slice of heaven lost to him. 

"It has always been you," he kisses her cheek, as tears slide down his own. "and I'm _sorry_ I didn't tell you before."

She turns her head to meet his eyes and he tenderly captures her wet, salty lips, once again solidifying their union as husband and wife.


End file.
